Love is Blind to Bruises
by Nimechan
Summary: Altair realizes the true nature of his and Malik's relationship. Written for a prompt on the AC kink meme long ago.


A/N: This was done for a long-ago prompt on the AC kink meme I only got around to finishing now. Something about how Malik and Altair only had rough sex, and Altair decided to be gentle for once. This... doesn't follow the prompt exactly, but it does in spirit. This story is also a prequel of sorts to "What We Lose." Altair and Malik are both around the age of seventeen.

Minor trigger warnings for abusive relationships.

EDIT: If, for some of you who read this story when it was first published are rereading and think it's a little different than it was before... it's because it is. As a general note, I tend to look back and change things over the first few days after I publish something. APOLOGIES FOR MY INEPTITUDE.

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><p><strong>Love Is Blind (To Bruises)<br>**

"Let us end this, Altaïr."

Poised atop a sun-baked building, two youths in the faded white garments of novices looked over the busy streets of Masyaf. One crouched delicately on a protruding wooden support beam, motionless except for the slight rustle of wind blowing through his hair and clothing. He was Altaïr, broad-shouldered with a sense of deadly intent already lurking behind his young eyes.

The other, Malik, who had spoken, stood a little ways behind him on solid roof. Though he was not as taken to flamboyance as the other novice, he held his lither body with the same stillness, strength and lethal grace etched almost as finely into the lines of his body.

Malik speaks again, irritation bleeding into his voice. "Did you hear me, La'Ahad?"

Eyes not ceasing their sharp surveillance over the milling crowd below, Altaïr answers. "End what, the string of petty thefts occurring within the city? Of course – that _is_ what the Master sent us to do."

He grumbles a little, clearly unhappy with being sent to do such a trivial task. Malik's lips are also tighten with a frown, but he shakes his head.

"That is not what I meant," he says.

"What do you mean, then?"

"I meant this-" With a hand, he gestures jerkily between them, despite that Altaïr cannot see it. "-this _thing_ between us." He says _thing_ as if it were a curse, spitting it on the ground.

Though to any regular observer it would have seemed like Altaïr had not reacted at all, Malik sees him become impossibly stiller, the air around his shoulders vibrating with the tense pull of his shoulders. The people below, blissfully ignorant to the trained killer looming over them, continue to chatter.

"I do not understand," Altaïr bites out, the ominous beginnings of anger laced in his voice. "What do you mean?"

"It is simple," Malik replies scathingly. Sharp words were his specialty, and they were much easier said to a hunched pair of shoulders than a face. "I no longer wish to share beds. I also no longer wish for us to take missions together, and in fact, no longer wish see you at all."

At this Altaïr stands abruptly, catching the attention of a few passerby that murmur to themselves as he whirls around on the beam itself. He ignores them, glaring at his startled companion.

"What prank is this?" he demands, his hands curling into fists.

"You fool, get down from there!" Malik snaps. He reaches for Altaïr's tunic, but Altair bats him away, jumping down from the ledge and landing a hair's breadth in front of him.

"I demand your reasons," he growls. The look of alarm flickers off Malik's face as he meets Altair's glare, an intimidating glower with infamous reputation among their peers. But if it had affected Malik he did not show it; his face had stilled to something coolly impassive. Only his eyes had moved, flickering minutely across the expanse of Altaïr's as if searching for something tucked between the dark pupils and gold-flecked irises.

Something he could not find, it seemed, when Malik breaks eye contact and steps back, exhaling wearily.

"Do you remember us when we began, Altaïr?" he asks, gazing out towards the brotherhood's fortress nestled in the distant hills. "Our earlier years within the brotherhood. When we were younger, happier, freer."

Altaïr snorts, crossing his arms. "More naïve."

Despite his derisive tone, Malik nods in agreement. "Yes. It was when we did not yet fully realize the burdens of our future responsibilities… before we truly realized we were meant to kill."

"We are an order of assassins. From the beginning we know we are meant to walk this path," Altaïr says impatiently.

"But it was different before," Malik insists, turning back to him. "We used wooden swords, hacking at faceless straw. There was innocence in us."

"Innocence? We are to be assassins and you speak of our _innocence_?"

"Even we had it once."

"You fret over the most idiotic things. Besides, we've yet to be given our first assassination – we have yet to receive our first _blade_."

A fact that gnawed at Altair since they first were allowed out of the citadel in order to witness firsthand the evils that lied in the world. Unconsciously his hands twitch for the blade in his tunic he had bought in secret. He is not supposed to have it, and not supposed to kill, yet – but people are not supposed to steal, either. Why did the destruction of evil need to wait on the whims of the Brotherhood?

Malik remains silent.

"Where are you going with this?" Altaïr hisses. "We cannot be children forever. And neither would I want to be – in fact, I yearn for the day I may sink a blade of my own into our enemies' throats."

At this, Malik shakes his head with regret. "And therein, Altaïr, lies my reason."

He continues to speak as thought blind to the confusion and frustration gathering in the creases of Altaïr's forehead. "I will go to the other end of the city and watch for disturbances there. We will reconvene when the tower bell has run thrice if neither of us have chanced upon the thief."

A whirl of cloth, the whisper of quick, lightly treaded steps, and Malik departs, leaping smoothly over to a neighboring roof.

...

Some moments later, still putting distance between him and his stunned companion, Malik remembers too late to keep a tight hold on his emotions. He begins to run faster, then faster, until he is barreling over the city roofs at a breakneck, reckless speed, trying to outrun the terrifying ache swelling in his chest. His breath shallows, a choked sob rising in his throat, and as if in a bid for safety he leaps for a distant ledge—

—And is caught, yanked roughly from behind by the cloth of his tunic. Surprise blooms across his face; a split second later so does fear, when he realizes that they are trapped in midair. Malik only has time to utter a strangled exclamation and think, vaguely, that at least the fear that came with death was more familiar to him than the feeling which had paralyzed his heart just moments before, before the sky rises away and he squeezes his eyes shut, allowing the pull of gravity and that of the arms around him take him into darkness.

They land, but instead of darkness there are shades of yellow and brown, and Malik bursts to the surface with a gasp, sending straws fluttering through the air. He looks around wildly, worried through his disbelief that he still possesses his life that they had raised a commotion – the code, always remember the code – but finds that against all odds they had landed in a pile of hay stacked in a deserted courtyard, masked by the shadow of the high wall and the chatter of a nearby street.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he turns his attention to the body trapped below him with a snarl.

"_De'la_! You could have killed us—"

The rest of his tirade is cut short when Altair grabs his tunic a second time, this time to yank Malik into a bruising kiss. Caught by surprise Malik thinks to late to struggle, and when Altair withdraws his tongue he is the one above, pinning down his furious lover.

"Your face is flushed," Altair notes, his voice managing a cold bite despite his labored breathing. "Your heart is beating at a cat's pulse—"

"We almost _died_—"

"—And the stirring beneath my thigh is hardly my imagination, so unless you think of another's mouth when mine is on yours, I know your body still responds to _me_."

Malik glares pointedly off to the side in the direction of the street, where people walk in and out of sight unaware, and says nothing. Undaunted, Altair continues to speak with controlled unaffectedness, the only outward sign of his frustration his tightening grip on Malik's forearms.

"I will admit that you've been very quarrelsome of late. But the only reasons you've given for your sudden desire to end your relations with me are silence and riddles, which leads me to believe that you do not _have_ a good reason to give me at all."

He emphasizes his statement by digging his fingers into Malik's biceps and grinding his groin into his, eliciting a mixture of pain and reluctant pleasure. Malik flinches almost imperceptibly as Altair's lips brushes the shell of his ear, whispering seductively.

"Do you envy me, Malik? Or do you simply want to be punished?"

With a harsh cry Malik snakes his arms and legs through Altair's limbs and twists his own body viciously. Straw flies again, and when they settle Malik is again on top, hands shaking with barely suppressed rage around Altair's throat. The other novice's eyes widen with shock when they see Malik's face contorted with loathing.

"Arrogant son of a whore," Malik seethes, his voice soft only with effort. "Proud to the point of conceit, stubborn to the point of insurgence. But the worst is your bloodlust. Your killing intent is without any regard for the brotherhood's purpose!"

His fingers tighten on Altair's neck, and Altair belatedly grips his wrists. Malik's rage is morbidly fascinating, and in his distraction Altair can only pull off just enough pressure to breathe.

"I do not know when it had begun happening, but it has," Malik continues with disgust. "You became more vicious in the practice courts, more disrespectful to the elders, more impatient towards our peers. And with me, more…"

He trails off, clenching his teeth, and starts again. "You were insufferable too when we were younger, and we have always bickered, but something changed. _You_ changed. Or perhaps you haven't. Perhaps… perhaps I only realized that you never would."

As he speaks, the energy drains from Malik's arms, and his hands loosen on Altair's throat. But Al Mualim's young protégé does not move to free himself. He is still pinned, not by Malik's hands, but by the look of something broken in his eyes, the most vulnerable expression he has ever seen his proud friend wear.

"I have tried to warn you of yourself," Malik whispers bleakly. "That your arrogance will soon have consequences, that it would be the death of you, the death of others. I have tried many times. But you simply brush off my words like dust on your shoulder. I try harder, and you think me jealous of your talent. Then we fight."

He draws a shuddering breath, his eyelids fluttering closed. When he opens them, his eyes match the steel in his voice. "You fly too high above me now, where neither my voice nor sword can reach, and I have accepted that. But I no longer find it entertaining to fight for a cause I have no hope of winning. In fact, I cannot bear it. _That_ is my reason, Altair. Are you satisfied?"

"Thief!"

The novices start, jerking their heads towards the cry that had pierced through the white noise of the city crowd. They look back at each other. Threads of tension still latch them to the spot, but there was too much chance that the cry was a sign of their target. A young lifetime of training claws at them, urging them to fulfill their mission.

Malik exhales wearily, then glares, eyes hard with warning.

"We will fulfill our mission and report back. That is the end of our acquaintance," he commands. As he speaks he rises off of Altair, and before Altair can respond, he sprints away.

After a beat, a frustrated snarl rips out of his throat, and Altair follows.

In the open street, an old man shakes his fist from his sprawled position on the ground, yelling obscenities at a shabbily-dressed figure running further and further away. Nearby guards had shouted and begun to move, but slowed and began assisting the old man instead as the two novices blur past.

Malik and Altair close in on their target, the former weaving deftly through the bewildered crowd and the latter shoving them out of his path. His mind clouded with anger and frustration, Altair bounds onto a pile of crates and races atop protruding beams, ignoring the gasps of spectators and Malik's shout, until the thief is almost directly below him.

"No killings!" Malik yells, a mere meter or two behind in the forest of curious market people. "We do not yet have that power! You'll get into trouble! _Altair!_"

With the sound of Malik's voice, the anger pounding in Altair's head only increases. What nonsense had Malik been speaking of? He has always been who he is – if people mistook his confidence for arrogance, so be it. But out of all people, Malik had always accepted him for who he is. He had thought Malik understood him, his need to change the world for the better, his resentment at being treated like a fledgling when he already had wings.

And claws.

With a powerful thrust, he leaps off a beam and lands solidly on the ragged man, who squawks as his legs collapse from underneath him. He twists around under Altair, and the novice sees that his looks match the descriptions given by his victims.

"P-please forgive me!" he splutters, raising his bony arms before his face in pathetic defense. Altair pulls his dagger, pushes his arms easily out of the way, raises his weapon and—

"_The worst is your bloodlust."_

–blinks.

Suddenly something mercilessly unyielding snaps around his throat again, an arm, ruthlessly dragging him off the criminal weeping below him. Still wound from the chase and a bit disoriented, he reacts violently, slicing at the thick cord of muscle below his chin. A strangled shout bursts into his ear, and he is released, air rushing back to his lungs. Altair immediately lunges forward and sinks his dagger into the hem of the thief's tunic before he could try to escape, and pivots in a feral crouching position to face his attacker.

What he sees stops him short, his organs freezing within his chest. It is Malik, hunched over himself and clutching his left arm close to his body. His sleeve is darkening with blood; two bright red droplets splatter on the dirt. Once he realizes what he had done, Altair reaches slowly towards the other boy, the tips of his fingers trembling ever so slightly. "Malik—"

"Don't touch me!" Malik snarls, and Altair recoils, almost as if he were the one struck. He looks away.

The other novice staggers on his feet, swallowing two deep breaths before uttering in a low, tightly controlled voice, "We are done here. I will hand him over to the guards. Go back and report to Al Mualim."

Altair frowns. "We are supposed to do that together."

"_I don't care_," he spits. "I do not wish to see your face. Leave and report to the master."

"Malik—"

"LEAVE!" Malik roars, startling the guards from earlier who had jogged over. After a moment of hesitation, Altair turns around and runs.

...

When he reaches the doorway of his and Malik's shared room, Altar comes to a halt. Before him is Malik, knelt before his pallet as he places his few belongings into a satchel. A cold sensation shoots down his body. For all of Malik's angry words, Altair had never believed him and his intention to leave; now, he could believe it all too well.

Malik finishes packing and ties his bag closed, but he does not move from where he kneels. He stays facing his pallet, hands half-curled on his thighs.

"Well? What is it?" he demands without turning, motionless on the floor.

He had removed his cowl sometime before, and Altair stares at the nape of Malik's bared neck, the tousled black hair, thinking of what to say.

"You've reported back to Al Mualim as well?" he asks finally.

"I have."

"…I see. I am to expect words from him, then."

Malik snorts. "It would only be what you deserve. But no, you will not. I did not tell him of your clumsy butchering – I had assumed you were competent enough to include it in your report."

That was a lie. As long as a mission was successful, Altair considered mistakes as means to an end, unworthy of mention. Malik knows this, and Altair knows Malik knows this, and also knows well the way Malik hid kindness behind harsh words.

Guilt curls lightly around his heart, a faint pang that brings him across the room and down, cross-legged at Malik's level. He leans forward, dropping his head lightly between Malik's shoulder blades. Under the skin of his forehead he feels muscle cord and tighten with a sudden tension, then soften as Malik sighs, a resigned, weary sound that seems to flow like a cold breeze through Altair's chest and tighten the shame coiled there.

"Your arm," Altair says quietly, a few moments later.

"What of it?"

"It… was an accident. I did not know it was you." It is the closest Altair can bring himself to an apology.

Malik shrugs. He twists a little, reaching over his back to thread his fingers lightly into Altair's hair, and Altair closes his eyes at the touch. "We have done worse to each other."

"Then why are you still leaving?" Altair murmurs.

After a pause Malik replies, his voice tinged with resentment. "Because we have done worse to each other."

"What do you mean?"

For a brief second Malik's hand clenches, pulling Altair's hair painfully taut. Then abruptly it disappears, and Malik shrugs the other young assassin off. Altair does not say anything, but opens his eyes as Malik faces him. They hold each other's gaze as Malik unties his own sash and lets it pool on the floor, then unlaces his outer robe, his hands moving with quick, practiced ease. Finally he lifts his tunic up and over his head, placing it on top of his other clothes, and waits wordlessly as Altair's eyes lower to roam his body.

Above the well-defined muscles, on sun-kissed skin, Malik's body is littered with bruises of every shape and color. Some are large expanses of black and blue caused by blunt force; others are striped across his forearms, wrists and hips, as if hands had held there with an iron grip. Others are small, orange-purple welts that pockmarked his neck and chest, and some are not bruises at all, but wounds barely healed – red, knitting skin where it had been broken in the shape of tiny crescents and long, thin gashes.

Then there is his arm, bright crimson still bleeding through tightly wrapped bandages.

Altair keeps his eyes cast down on Malik's body, finding himself unable to return to Malik's hard gaze. "You've done nearly the same to me."

It is a weak excuse; they both know which of them was quicker to violence. That Malik would not submit without a fight to anyone, whether in the training ring or out.

Very few of their bruises came from within the training ring nowadays.

Altair remembers now, the path that led them to this point. He has no choice but to; the evidence is right before him, etched into Malik's skin. Each ugly welt brings him memories of the last few weeks in flashes: Malik standing grimly in front of a suspect whom Altair near strangled to death for information; Malik shoving him angrily in their quarters after Altair's execution of a mission had caused a riot in town. In all of them, Malik would furiously, urgently confront Altair about his methods, and always Altair would dismiss him until his irritation swelled to the point he could ignore it no longer.

"_Then we fight."_

No, this was not sudden at all. But though he remembers now, knows how much he is to blame, Altair hears himself say, "We are men, trained to be assassins. We are far from delicate."

Malik's eyes narrow. Altair's insides recoil, disgusted with him.

"Which is why you will survive my absence," Malik snaps. He lies back onto his pallet, placing an arm over his eyes. It is an obvious dismissal. "It will help that we no longer share anything worth missing."

...

A silence drops over them, long enough that Malik wonders if Altair had, for once, decided to leave him be. When he hears the door drawn shut, he clenches his teeth, trying to ignore the sense of desolation that mingled with his relief.

Suddenly footsteps and the rustle of clothes whisper through the room, resounding clearly in Malik's trained ears. He stills as the air around him moves and begins to radiate a familiar warmth, knowing without looking that though nothing touches him, Altair hovers right above, inches within reach.

"What now?" Malik asks, trying to project menace. His body tenses on instinct, awaiting the inevitable rough grab and possessive kiss.

No one answers. He almost does not feel it at first; the touch is feather-light, and he had grown accustomed to touches meant to be felt long after they had been given. But it is there, below his navel – the soft press of warm lips, and Malik realizes it is when it's withdrawn, leaving the patch of skin cold.

The strange sense of loss hardly has time to fill him before the gentle lips return, pressing lightly on his abdomen. Again they withdraw and return, placing warm, tender kisses on his body; first at his stomach, then his chest – atop every bruise, like a balm, melting away Malik's irritated façade and baring the terrible ache in his chest. Breath hitching and eyes beginning to sting, Malik hates Altair for having the power to undo him so easily.

But he doesn't move, and for that he hates himself more.

Altair's lips finish their journey at his neck, lowering themselves carefully across the sensitive skin before disappearing. A second later, a warm puff of air tells Malik that they had retreated to the air just above him, and he finally removes his arm from his face.

Altair's eyes fill his vision. The expression in them is… odd. Malik thinks that perhaps it is something of what he had been looking for in Altair's eyes, before. Humility, remorse, even pain; some trace of the boy that valued his presence and opinion. It is an expression too vulnerable to be held for long, and Altair's gaze quickly slides away to the space beside Malik's ear.

"I know we've never completely agreed," Altair mutters, "But my methods always—"

"Stop," Malik interrupts tiredly, no longer able to pretend he was strong enough not to care when it came to Altair. "I don't want to argue, not now. It's been too long since—"

Abruptly Malik cuts himself off, but Altair grasps enough of the sentiment to flinch. Sickly he tries to recall the last time he had reached for Malik without the intent to mark him, to silence him and prove his own dominance, and cannot remember.

An apology rises in Altair's throat, a true one, but even he realized the arrogance of believing a few words of regret would make up for the damage he'd written on Malik's skin – damage that, unlike his arm, had been far from accidental. Briefly then he thinks about letting fly the words lodged at the tip of his tongue, those which strained to be spoken at the sight of Malik's smile, but they are a taboo within the Brotherhood even he was not strong enough to break.

So instead he kisses him, slipping his tongue carefully between Malik's lips and pouring the words there. Malik does not respond at first, but even now Altair cannot help but be insistent, and after a moment Malik's lips begin to move. For a long time they simply kiss each other, carefully exploring each other's mouth as if neither were desperate to leave, or for the other to stay. There is no clash of teeth, or suffocation, and the taste is sweet without the bitter tang of blood.

As their kisses become deeper and more urgent, Altair carefully lowers his body to lie flush atop Malik's. First their chests meet, eliciting a faint pain in both of them as their bruises pressed against each other, but it is quickly numbed as their groins meet with a crush of pleasure. Malik turns and Altair falls so that they lie on their sides, and Altair encircles Malik with his arms, running his hands down his back, trying to feel him with his palms to the pads of his fingers. Malik lays one hand around Altair's neck and drapes the other arm over his torso, allowing Altair to break their kiss to plant more on Malik's throat and neck. Their legs tangle as they grind their lengths against each other, which grow hard and wet despite the cloth between them.

Then Altair rolls them so that he is again above. He moves down Malik's body, once more placing open mouthed kisses on his bruises, and this time Malik feels every tiny contour of Altair's lips, involuntarily arching at their touch as he chokes back his gasps. At Malik's navel, Altair licks the last blue-black patch of skin peeking above Malik's pants before gripping the cloth and, after flicking his eyes up questioningly to see Malik close his eyes in wordless permission, pulls it down to expose his hardening length. His mouth lowers, and Malik surrenders his mind to oblivion.

...

Darkness rushes into his dilated eyes and plunges into the turmoil of his half-sleeping mind, and only the years of forcing his body to obey his will keep Malik from gasping and shooting up from his pallet. Instead he simply blinks, attempting to bring his mind to order. It is night, moonlight filtering past opened shutters and casting a pale glow upon everything in the room, including the body beside him. Altair lies on his stomach, one arm under his pillow – undoubtedly holding his dagger – and the other slung over Malik's chest.

His face is turned towards him, and Malik stares at the countenance of his greatest trouble, which even in sleep did not completely lose his frown. This boy holds too much power over me, he thinks. The fear that clenched his heart running over the rooftops returns like an arrow sunk deep between his ribs, and he has begun to recognize it as the fear that comes with the loss of control. Hours ago, Altair was gentle, so painfully tender, but the fact remained that Malik did not, could not push him away. He was at Altair's mercy in every sense – Altair outmatched him in combat, was his equal in academics…

And Malik's heart is helpless against this boy.

Perhaps it is cowardice, to flee with his tail between his legs. But if one cannot fight, Malik thinks bitterly, one flies to fight another day. He eases himself from under Altair's arm and slips on his tunic. Quietly, he picks up his satchel and turns towards the door.

"Malik?"

Malik freezes. He takes a small breath, and says, as evenly as he can, "The Master wishes to see me concerning my next mission. I will return in a while."

The silence brews thick in the pause between them. Tense and unmoving, Malik waits for Altair's reply.

I cannot even move without his consent, he thinks with a sudden, violent hatred. It makes Malik want to tear Altair's limbs apart, smash his fists into his face until his skull caved into his brain. He wants to run out of the room and slam as many doors as he can between him and this terrible, beautiful boy.

Again, again, again, he remains still.

"...You had better leave now, then. The Master doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Like a spell broken, Malik is able to walk out of the room. He passes by the library without pause, heading directly for the stables – he had already spoken to Al Mualim and the Jerusalem's bureau leader – and with a snap of the rein, he passes Masayaf's gates and gallops into the darkness, not daring to look back. He is to be an assassin. He will leave behind his all his weaknesses, helplessness and fear.

Even if it means leaving Altair behind as well.

...

Back within the castle, in the small, dank wing relegated to the novices, a novice lies alone in a room meant for two. As soon as the door had shut, he presses his palms into his eyes and bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood.

Seven years from now, Altair will not remember this night, not for what it was. He will remember Malik's retreating back; he will remember abandonment. At the entrance of Solomon's Temple, he will look into the eyes of an arrogant assassin from Jerusalem and feel nothing but bitterness and contempt.

But tonight, he thinks of Malik's bruises, his resignation and pain. He recalls the way Malik had stood so still by the pallet, as if frozen there by Altair's attention, his head turned just enough his way for Altair to glimpse the bleak expression in his eyes. Malik's excuse had been pathetic; no novice would have a task important enough to warrant a meeting with the master at such a late hour. It would have been easy to confront him, to accuse him of lying and cowardice. It did not matter now.

A tear streaks past his hands and down his cheek. Seven years from now, Altair will not remember that he let Malik go. But tonight, he does.

* * *

><p>AN: Then they hook back up together post AC1 and raise a daughter together and all that jazz. Love and determination and fangirl delusion can make anything canon-compliant.


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